


a couple rebel top-gun pilots

by jamesstruttingpotter



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, sorry all, theres no backstory or context, this is basically an excuse to write a sexy spy au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-02-09 04:06:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12879828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesstruttingpotter/pseuds/jamesstruttingpotter
Summary: “Fancy seeing you here, Mister…”“Ocampo,” Bellamy supplies. He turns to lean against the bar top, glass in hand. “And who are you?”“Sarah,” she says, prim. “Sarah Mason.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t logged onto tumblr in a year and I haven’t been watching the 100 for even longer but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Clarke sends him a postcard as soon as she gets her assignment.

Her plane lands two days later. She’s antsy for the entire bus ride to the safe house, leg jumping up and down despite her best efforts. Raven gives her her best unimpressed look; Clarke stares out the window instead of meeting her gaze.

“Would you fucking relax?” Raven asks a day later, sitting up on the couch. Clarke keeps her eyes on the monitors in front of her, watching a live feed of crowds sweeping through the city plaza. “I’m serious, Clarke. This is sexy and intriguing and honestly, I didn’t know you had it in you, but it’s not the time or place.”

“Well, it’s technically the place,” she can’t help but reply, and Raven’s eyes narrow.

“Snap out of it,” she warns, before turning back to the TV. Clarke sighs, barely audible, and switches to a view of the river.

She doesn’t see him for another week. When she does, she’s wearing a buttery pink dress and a foreign accent, vowels round in her mouth every time she talks to her fellow party-goers. The chandeliers overhead drip with crystal, and the cherrywood floors underfoot gleam. Her switchblade is snug against her inner thigh; she can’t help brushing a palm along the strap of its garter holster as she circles the room a third time.

“She must have known we were on her tail,” Raven says after two hours, voice quiet in her ear, and Clarke feels her spine soften slightly. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she adds, before a soft click signals her sign-off.

Clarke heads straight for the bar.

She’s only half a glass of wine in when she feels a warm shoulder slide past her own. She manages not to stiffen, and keeps similarly still when she catches a hint of Barbasol from next to her.

“Whiskey neat, please,” he says, and she hides a smile in her next sip.

“You don’t even like whiskey,” she murmurs, and he huffs out a laugh.

“Got to keep up appearances,” he replies, and she lets herself look up.

“Fancy seeing you here, Mister…”

“Ocampo,” Bellamy supplies. He turns to lean against the bar top, glass in hand. “And who are you?”

“Sarah,” she says, prim. “Sarah Mason.”

“Proper English name,” he notes, and makes a face at his drink. “What are you doing here tonight, Ms. Mason?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she retorts. That one gets her a real laugh, one that disappears as soon as his eyes cut across to the other side of the room.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he says, brisk. She nods, and he brushes a hand against her sleeve as he walks away.

When she’s sure no one’s looking, she fishes his keycard out of her cuff and slips out into the hallway.

*

It’s only an hour later when the lock chirps and he walks in, one hand pressed against his temple to staunch the flow of blood there. She gets up to grab a towel, gesturing at him to take her place on the bed. He does so with a groan.

“He fought back a little bit,” he says, a little unnecessarily. “Sorry for making you wait.”

“As if this doesn’t always happen to at least one of us,” she says, coming out of the bathroom. She presses the wet towel against his wound, frowning in sympathy when he winces. “I think it’s pretty shallow.”

“I’ll be fine,” he says, but she keeps the towel where it is until she’s sure the bleeding’s slowed. “Thanks.”

She moves to go back to the bathroom, but he stops her with a hand on her elbow. He takes the towel from her with his other hand and tosses it on the nightstand. “I should at least get you some bandaids,” she says, but he shakes his head.

“I’ll be fine,” he repeats, and his fingers slide over to the silk bow at her hip, right at his eye level. “This dress really earns you the nickname ‘Princess,’ you know.”

“It’s not like I picked it out,” she says, pragmatic despite her accelerating heartbeat. His eyes are fixed on his hand, concentration creasing his brow.

“You should fire whoever dresses you.”

“Yeah, I didn’t like this one either.”

His smile is sudden, softer than she would have expected. “Did you at least pick out what’s underneath?”

She can’t help her laugh. “I’ll let you guess.”

To her surprise, though, he doesn’t undo the tie. He continues his path downward, reaching the dress’s hem at her knees. He’s excruciatingly slow, fingers trailing up her bare thigh like they’ve got the whole night, and she’s so caught by the way his lashes flutter in the dim lamplight that it startles her when he reaches her garter.

“Thought so,” he says, almost smug, and unbuckles it. Her blade falls to the ground between her feet, still sheathed; she pushes it away with the toe of her shoe. His palm brushes over the newly exposed skin, and he grins when his fingertips reach lace.

“Well?” she asks, and she’s proud of how steady her voice is. “Or do you need a visual?”

He surges to his feet, mouth on hers before she’s taken a breath. He tastes like expensive whiskey and cheap spearmint gum. She pushes his jacket off his shoulders immediately, fumbling with his bowtie next; he has no such problems with her dress’s bow and pulls on one end until the folds of fabric fall open. “Jesus, I love wrap dresses,” she blurts out, and his laugh is mostly hot air against her cheek.

“I definitely needed the visual,” he says, and she kicks off her shoes. He’s not undressing fast enough, but now he’s unbuckling his belt, so that’s something, at least. She takes the opportunity to start kissing down his neck, sloppy and quick, and he groans as her teeth nip his shoulder.

He finally gets his belt off and grabs her hips to swing both their bodies around, using their momentum to toss her onto the bed. She yanks him down by his collar and undoes half his shirt buttons, hands greedily roaming his bare chest. He tugs off the shirt and crowds her into the mattress, both hands at her hips. She wraps a leg around his and grinds up; swearing, he slides farther down her body.

“Bellamy - “ she starts, but he drops a kiss to the corner of her inner thigh, and she lets her head drop back. “Fine, but fast,” she acquiesces, and she can feel his smile against her skin.

“Thanks,” he says, dry, and peels her underwear off.

The first press of his mouth is right on her clit and she lets out a whimper. His tongue strokes her quickly, hot and perfect, and she’s embarrassingly ready by the time he pushes a finger into her. That’s how she comes the first time, fingers tugging at his curls, moans muffled by the pillow next to her.

He gives her a second, after which she snaps off her bra and pushes him down into the bed. “I’m not going to last long if you reciprocate,” he warns, and she reaches over to yank the bedside table drawer open.

He’s got his boxers off by the time she opens the condom foil, and she can’t help leaning over to lick a long stripe up his dick, ignoring the way he shudders. Then she takes his length into her mouth fully, bobbing up and down a couple times, until - “Clarke,” he grits out, and she lets him go to roll the condom on him.

“I want to be on top,” she says and straddles him at his nod.

She lowers herself infinitesimally, brushing her opening against his tip. She can see his jaw working. She takes her time, slowly sinking down onto him, until he’s fully buried in her. He lets a breath out, one hand tightening on her hip. She leans down to press a kiss onto his mouth, and his other hand slides up to run a thumb against her nipple. She shifts against him, slow again, and he nips her lower lip.

“Faster,” he says, and she shakes her head. He brings his mouth to her other breast and she threads her fingers into his hair, nails scraping his scalp.

“Patience,” she tells him, teasing but breathless, and he releases her nipple to shoot her a look. Before she knows it, he’s grabbed her and flipped them. “Bellamy!”

“It’s been literally months,” he says, driving into her, and she moans at the feeling. “There’s no way I’m being _patient_ \- “

His hand reaches down to rub her clit, and she spreads her legs wider, hooking one over his hip. “Okay, yes, fine, this is good - _fuck_.”

She shivers against him and feels herself come, wetness soaking his fingers - he follows a few seconds later, face buried into her neck.

The room’s quiet for a half minute. Then he rolls off her with a deep breath, landing on his back.

“Cool,” she says, and he snorts.

“Very cool.”

She rolls onto her side, facing him, and he curls an arm around her shoulders. Her hair is sticking to the sweat on her back, but she can’t be bothered to brush it away. “Now what?” she asks. “Room service?”

“Yeah, sure,” he says. “If you want to get up to grab the menu.”

“Hmm. Okay, pass.”

“I guess we’re just going to lie here then,” he says, grinning.

As if on cue, her phone beeps.

She groans. “You jinxed it,” she says, accusatory, but hauls herself up to check it.

_Get back here_ , says a text from Raven.

“Duty calls?” Bellamy asks, sitting up.

“Duty calls,” she confirms, and he sighs.

“At least it wasn’t in the middle of sex this time,” he offers, and she shakes her head, wry smile on her face.

“Yeah, what a win.”

There’s a pause before she grabs her underwear, shimmying it on; he hands her her bra and her discarded dress, which she slips on and re-ties. Last are her shoes, and he watches her slide them on.

“You here any longer?” he asks, and she bites her lip.

“Depends,” she says, and he nods.

“Next time, then,” he says. She bends down to brush a kiss against his cheek, and he pushes a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Next time,” she promises.

She grabs her phone and purse, immediately replying to Raven with an ETA.

She tells herself not to look back as she pulls the door open to leave.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I guess I'm back with a plot twist: actually writing a second chapter for a one-shot. Wonders never cease.

Raven has a gun pointed at her as soon as the door opens. Clarke has barely any time to react before the other woman softens, clearly relieved to see her.

“Who the hell are you expecting?” Clarke asks, heart pounding.

“Not sure,” Raven replies, flicking the safety off before tossing the thing onto the table in front of her. “But if it had been anyone but you, I’d have killed them.”

Clarke pauses, takes in the open computer monitors on the desk, the cold mug of coffee, the scattered recording devices that have been taken apart with ruthless precision. “What happened,” she says, gripping her own weapon in a suddenly sweaty palm.

Raven tosses her a dismantled device. “Look at it.”

The wires are short and tangled in her hand, the metal sleek and cracked open at just the right angle. Clarke knows exactly what Raven did to disable this device, knows how to do it herself in less than ten seconds, even knows what range the device is capable of recording at and with what sound quality. She knows everything there is to know about this device, because -

“This is ours,” she says, slow, and Raven just looks at her.

* * *

The first time Clarke sees Bellamy in person, as opposed to in dossiers and grainy video clips, she’s bleeding out in a Parisian alleyway at three in the morning. He’s either very good at what he does or she’s too distracted with fashioning a tourniquet out of the handkerchief she keeps for just these occasions; either way, she realizes he’s watching her half a beat before she realizes he’s been watching her for a while.

“I’m armed,” she calls in English.

“So am I,” he replies, apparently unconcerned. His approach belies his tone: his steps are slow, wary. Clarke’s neck prickles with awareness. “Not going to pretend you’re a random Parisian who got mugged?”

“Honestly, I’d be a little offended if your team didn’t keep tabs on me after all the work I’ve done.”

It almost looks like he’s smiling. “Fair point. That’d be easier if you had some help, by the way.”

She meets his gaze at that. His expression is relaxed, and he shows her his empty palms.

“Alright,” she says, like a dare, and watches him slip the fabric from her hands. “Don’t expect this to have any positive impact on our interagency relations, though.”

His laughter is barely a huff. “Right, like we’re at all interested in patching things up with Alpha.”

She shrugs. “Sometimes people regret leaving.”

His fingers are warm on her tricep. “Not us.”

She studies his profile, reviews what she knows about Delta. It’s not much: a quiet argument between Charles Pike, Marcus Kane, and her mother had ultimately led to an intra-agency rift, one that grew until Pike decided to withdraw from Alpha altogether, poaching several agents to found Delta. Clarke has only heard about it in whispers, was still a child when the matter was finally put to bed, but she knows that the weight of the disagreement is on her shoulders, same as Bellamy’s. Their lines have been drawn in the sand already, scripted before they met.

And yet, he finishes knotting her handkerchief around her arm and takes a step back, hands again empty and raised to shoulder height. She stands up straight, watches him watch her for a beat. There’s silence, then his voice, brisk for the first time: “You got to Lovejoy before we did, then.”

Clarke’s grin is stiff on her face. “I’m just here to see the sights.”

He snorts, checks his watch. “Yeah. See you around, Princess.”

“Princess?” she says, derision slipping out before she can stop herself, and he’s already gone without more than a grin in reply.

* * *

“This isn’t making any sense,” Clarke says, for possibly the fifth time in the past hour.

Raven doesn’t even look up from her computer. “Things usually don’t, especially when you won’t stay quiet and let me work.”

Clarke gets up from the bed, exhausted, and pours herself a drink. The bottle is cool to the touch, and for a brief moment she lets herself entertain the idea of foregoing a glass entirely.

“Jesus, what a time for the internet to be fucking shitty at doing its job,” Raven mutters. “Finally,” she adds, as a series of files start rapidly downloading to her main screen. Clarke, tumbler in hand, comes over to scan the materials.

“This is all of our stuff on other agencies’ tech… You think someone’s trying to fake us out?”

“Makes more sense than Abby suddenly deciding we’re her biggest threats.”

“But look at these devices. They’re exactly like ours, down to the internal wiring,” Clarke points out. “The other agency in question would have had to know exactly how ours work and be able to replicate them exactly. They couldn’t do that without at least a few to look at and take apart, and the listening devices we don’t go back to retrieve we always self-destruct.”

“I know, but isn’t it more believable that some agency managed to do it somehow than thinking that someone from Alpha snuck in here and bugged us?” Raven is flicking through dossiers so quickly on so many screens that it makes Clarke’s head spin. “Come on. Who would it even have been? You think _Monty_ came in here while I was showering and planted all these? Wells?”

“Maybe Finn,” Clarke replies, and Raven allows a grim smile at that.

“As hilarious as it’d be to confront him about that, I think I’ve found something.” She clicks on an icon and a series of photos spring forward on the screen right in front of Clarke, all of Alpha listening devices similarly dismantled on a clinical-looking metal table. The agency seal is stamped in the lower right hand corner of each photo, as is the level of access needed to view them - Clarke has learned not to ask how Raven routinely bypasses her own access level restrictions.

“So you’re saying these devices weren’t made or planted by us?” she asks instead.

Raven’s got the attached written report pulled up on a tablet and is skimming it intently. Clarke leans in to examine the photos more closely, searching for a telltale flaw in the exterior shell, a misplaced or wrongly colored wire. She finds nothing out of the ordinary.

“Raven, I still - “ The expression on the other woman’s face cuts her off. “What?”

She says nothing, instead handing the tablet over. Clarke feels a weight settle in her stomach as she takes it, scrolling through the report.

_… successfully found and retrieved device… no authorized missions active on the subject in question… expected that Delta penetration into agency affairs is deeper in the technology research and development sector than previously believed… continued penetration into other sectors, particularly operations, is to be expected…_

She looks up sharply. Raven is watching her with a neutral expression, knuckles white on the armrests of her chair.

“Well,” she says, and her tone does nothing to help Clarke’s rapidly accelerating heartbeat, “it might be time to have a talk with your boyfriend.”


End file.
